


the chancellor's desk

by flirtingwithtrackers



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 19:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3221153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flirtingwithtrackers/pseuds/flirtingwithtrackers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for a prompt by <a href="http://rashaka.tumblr.com">rashaka</a>: “In the makeshift Ark conference room at Camp Jaha, Bellamy has Clarke on the large table (her mom’s table) while he eats her out. bc fuck authority, right.”</p><p>“Come on, I know what you need,” he says, sliding his hands down to clasp hers, and tugs her towards him as he backs up towards the tent’s exit. </p><p>or, the one where clarke goes to bellamy to let off some steam and things get, well, <i>steamy</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	the chancellor's desk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rashaka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rashaka/gifts).



> hi hello some more smut from me!! (shocker)
> 
> beta-d by the wonderful [lackingstealth](http://lackingstealth.tumblr.com) who is such a babe and put up with me (thanks so much, you angel!)
> 
> enjoy, beautiful butterflies

Bellamy’s sitting on his makeshift bed, shucking off his boots, when Clarke comes barreling into his tent. He can practically see the steam pouring from her ears as she goes into a rant about the latest fight she just had with her mother. Kane and Abby— _Chancellor Griffin,_ he can hear her correct him even in his head—have been fighting everything Clarke and Bellamy have been bringing to them and refuse to compromise until the situation forces them to. Which is why Bellamy is not all that shocked that Clarke is once again red with fury, pacing back and forth in his tent. He slowly laces his boots back up.

He stays sitting and lets her yell out all of her frustrations. Bellamy is just as angry that the Council (that they are _supposed to be_ a part of) refuses to listen to them even though they have more experience on the ground _and_ with the grounders. They even bump heads on little things, like hunting trips, rechecking bunkers for supplies they may have missed, or even allowing any of the delinquents (even those who have turned 18 since landing on the ground) to join the guard or participate in patrols. Despite being able to keep (almost) everyone alive and safe and (for the most part) navigate negotiations with the grounders, the Arkers refuse to allow Clarke and Bellamy to lead the society, the _family_ , they built for themselves down here, and it’s _infuriating_. So Bellamy watches Clarke rant, agreeing when she stops talking long enough for him to get a word in edgewise.

Bellamy gets up and slowly walks towards her, placing his hands on her arms and lightly rubbing up and down. “Come on, I know what you need,” he says, sliding his hands down to clasp hers, and tugs her towards him as he backs up towards the tent’s exit.

They’ve done this before. Bellamy and Clarke have fallen into bed together a few times (to relieve stress, _of course_ ), especially when the Ark first came down. They trust each other with their lives, so it only makes sense that they trust each other with this, too. A tryst or two with other girls around camp just didn’t feel the same after the weight of leadership grew too strong. It’s nice to have someone who shares that burden, who understands it, who can help relieve some of the stresses of that shared responsibility.

Clarke follows him all the way across camp and into the wreckage of Alpha Station, where he opens the door to the room currently being used as the Council’s conference room, where all the meetings are being held, and which also happens to double as the Chancellor’s office. She stops dead in her tracks as he stands there with the door open, her mouth gaping open.

“You can’t be serious! We are not— not in there! No,” Clarke whispers angrily, her checks burning.

Bellamy just tugs on her hand, so small compared to his, pulling her into him. “Come on, we’ll lock the door, no one will ever know. Trust me,” he says, his smirk in place as usual.

She does trust him and she has for a while, a lot longer than she thinks she probably should have. Clarke trusts him with their little band of delinquents, their lives, her life. She trusts him more than any other person at camp and if anyone would have told her that a few weeks ago, Clarke would have accused them of eating one too many Jobi nuts—but here they are.

Clarke can still feel the anger running through her veins at the thought of the council’s last decision, and their _refusal_ to take her or Bellamy, or any of the 100, seriously. They think they’re just _children_ , as if they hadn’t survived (more or less) without them after the Ark sent them here to _die._

So Clarke lets Bellamy pull her into the room, watches him as he locks the door behind him. The way he looks at her, his eyes darkening and taking her in, turns some of the exasperation under her skin into a furious lust, a need for something to hold onto until the storm passes. Bellamy has always been there for her, to protect her, to back her up, and he’s here now. _And_ he’s the best stress relief this side of Mount Weather. Bellamy knows just how to calm her down, to help her clear her head.

Bellamy moves closer into her, taking her face between his hands and urgently pressing his lips to hers. She responds immediately, grabbing at the back of his neck, pulling at the small, curly hairs at his nape.

He backs her up further into the room, until they reach the big table next to the back wall, the Chancellor’s desk, Abby Griffin’s desk, Clarke’s _mother’s_ desk. Bellamy pushes her up against it, grabbing at the back of her thighs until she perches herself on the tabletop.

He plays with the hem of her thin shirt, his fingertips running along the smooth skin of her stomach, teasing and insistent, until she slowly lifts her arms above her head so he can pull her shirt off. Bellamy brings his lips back to hers, kissing her lightly, hands skimming up and down her sides, ghosting along her curves. He tilts his head to deepen their kiss, but Clarke pulls away, breathing heavy and lips swollen pink.

“We are not having sex _right here_ ,” she manages in between breaths.

Ever the gentleman, Bellamy mutters an _of course_ , before tapping the side of her thighs with his hands, signaling her to wrap her legs around his waist. He lifts her up off the desk, his hands under her ass, and walks around to the other side of the desk. Pushing the Chancellor’s chair aside with his foot, Bellamy sets Clarke back down.

“Bellamy, we are _not_ having sex on my mom’s desk,” Clarke mutters into his neck. Her hands are gripping at the back of shirt, her fingers curled into the fabric. Bellamy pulls her arms away, his own hands reaching for the neckline of his shirt to tug it off over his head.

“We are having sex on the Chancellor’s desk,” Bellamy unbuttons her shorts, waiting for her to lift up before tugging them down her legs. Clarke’s about to protest (halfheartedly, probably), but he presses a kiss to her nose before looping his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and tugging them down as well.

Bellamy kisses at her neck, drawing his tongue across the heated flesh there and Clarke extends her neck to give him more access. His fingers trace patterns on the inside of her thighs. Bellamy lowers his head to kiss down to her collarbone, then lower, pressing small kisses to the sensitive skin at the tops of her breasts. His hands inch higher up her thighs. His fingers continue the maddening patterns. He bites at her nipple through the gray threadbare material of her bra. Clarke moans as she feels a wave of heat hit her center, aching to be touched.

“You’re going to orgasm on the Chancellor’s desk,” Bellamy breathes as he presses a small kiss to Clarke’s sternum, in between her breasts. He lowers himself to his knees in front of her. His bare, broad shoulders push her thighs further apart, opening her up to him. “And we both know you’re going to love it.”

Clarke feels the frustration ebb away as it’s replaced with an excited flutter in her stomach and the warmth of arousal deep within her, the flush of her anger replaced by a blush that heats the skin of her neck and spreads down her chest. “And how do you know that?” Clarke asks, her voice lacking the tease she was hoping for, sounding more breathless than she’d like.

“Because,” Bellamy begins, a smirk spreading across his face as he pulls her closer to him, arms under her thighs and hands on her ass. “Fuck the Ark,” he answers, pushing her knees even further apart. “Fuck the Council,” and his tongue drags across the delicate skin of the inside of her thigh.

A genuine smile flashes across Bellamy’s face as he continues, “but most importantly,” his nose brushes the skin where her leg meets her pelvis, causing Clarke to shiver involuntarily. “Fuck,” he presses a kiss to her clit, “you." 

Clarke would laugh at him (and his ridiculous antics) if he hadn’t drawn his tongue up her slit then, causing her to whimper instead. He parts her lips with his fingers and Clarke swears she hears him mutter—“so wet”—and she blushes. Bellamy’s tongue sweeps up and down her center, broad movements that cause Clarke’s mind to blank. She tries to focus on the feeling of him, the grip of his fingers on the flesh of her thighs, the way his tongue circles her, his warm breath against her heated skin.

Clarke’s back is arched forward, her hands placed into the curly, dark locks on the top of Bellamy’s head. She’s trying to keep her eyes open to look at him, admiring the way his eyelashes splay across his freckled cheeks and the crease on his forehead, a dimple in between his eyebrows (a result of concentration, probably). This is one of her favorite views, Bellamy in between her thighs, the dark tone of his skin contrasting with the white of her own, his fingers usually leaving fleeting red marks on the delicate skin there. 

The noises erupting from Clarke—the shaky breaths, the sighs, the moans, the _more_ ’s—are making Bellamy’s task much harder, as his erection pushes painful against the inside of his jeans. Her heady scent and her trembling thighs, coupled with a particularly arousing moan, cause Bellamy to moan himself. The sound and the vibrating sensation startle Clarke, pulling a gasp from her throat. Clarke flushes more (if possible) at the thought of Bellamy enjoying himself, imagining how hard he must be right now, how much he probably wants to touch himself or bury himself inside her 

Looking up, Bellamy can see the pleasure written across Clarke’s face and the resulting pride and gratification causes him to smile against her. He pulls back and Clarke whines, before he’s moving back to seal his lips around her clit. One of his hands reaches around to grasp at her thigh while the other moves to her center, pressing two fingers into her. Bellamy’s tongue flicks across her clit, as his fingers push in and out of her at a rate that is maddeningly slow, “too slow,” he thinks he hears Clarke murmur.

Clarke struggles to push herself closer to his face, begging him to go faster, and the chuckle he makes rumbles against her clit. She squeezes her thighs into Bellamy’s shoulders until he hooks her knees over them. Clarke can feel the pressure building as Bellamy slowly speeds up his rhythm, his tongue still swiping at her clit. He begins to suck, the pressure causing Clarke’s eyes to roll back. She cries out as she comes and his fingers wet with _her_.

Bellamy pulls back, sucking his fingers clean before trailing his tongue across the skin on the inside of her thigh as she lays back on the desk, waiting for the haze of her orgasm to pass. He stands and wipes his mouth, his smirk back in place as he looks over at Clarke, splayed out on the desk, her chest heaving, her skin flushed a delicious pink, and her eyes shut in bliss. When she opens them to look up at him, a small smile on her face, Bellamy smirks turns into a genuine smile, his eyes bright.

***

Not long after, Clarke’s pleasure drained to a dull need for _more_. By the time she’s bent over the desk, the force of Bellamy’s thrusts brushing her breasts up against the wood and causing her nipples to harden, Clarke can’t even remember why she was angry in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> i hope it was accurately rated, i'm still not sure if my fics are M or E, i feel like i keep skirting the line so...
> 
> this is my first in-universe fic, so i hope i did alright..  
> also my first try at dialogue (NOT THAT THERE IS MUCH BECAUSE SMUTTTTTT, but)  
> so as always, let me know what you think, i can always use the help/suggestions, i really like writing this stuff for you guys, but i also want you guys to enjoy it as well 
> 
> feel free to chat with me (or send in any bellarke prompts) on [tumblr](http://clarkeslight.tumblr.com) :))


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